The Falconer's Daughter, Book 1

Chapter 4 - Part 2

Cordaella knew it was best to get it over with. "I broke Eddie's nose," she confessed.

Philip quickly added, "But Eddie hit her first, Father. I swear it. She didn't mean to hit him hard. He sort of fell on her hand-" Philip's voice broke and he hung his head ashamed.

Elisabeth said nothing, her face scarlet. Cordaella got to her feet, trying to hide the stains on her gown. "I am sorry. I know I shouldn't have lost my temper."

"He's just a boy," the Earl thundered. "Why can't you see that? You can't behave like this, a banshee from the Highlands. I won't stand for it."

"I know." She could feel all eyes on her and her throat closed, tightening around the apology. "I am sorry. I was wrong."

"Not only is your cousin younger, he is also your lord."

"Yes, Uncle." She fought her pride and yet once again her pride won. "But, sir, if he is my lord, why is he treated like a baby? He is nearly twelve, sir."

"Did you just question me?" Eton bent over but did not have to stoop far, Cordaella nearly reached his shoulder. She was already as tall as Philip and a good head taller than Elisabeth, although both were several years older than she. "Did you?" he persisted. Cordaella nodded, shrinking from what would come next. "Go to the solar." Eton's voice was cold. "I will be there momentarily."

The Irishman's eyes narrowed as he saw how the girl's face paled, her jaw working furiously. He thought she would protest again and for a long painful moment no one moved or scarcely seemed to breathe. Cordaella fought the urge to cry. "Yes, sir." Even if O'Brien did not, all the children knew what would happen next.

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Cordaella left the solar with dry eyes. She had dug her nails into the wooden stool during the whipping rather than cry out loud. But now that she was free, she gathered her skirts into one hand and fled down the backstairs, climbing over the tall iron gate that separated the stable yard from the orchard. It was twilight and the sun had sunk low enough to leave the woods in long cool shadows. The ground was moist and as she walked, the smell of the earth rose up, warm and rich.

She walked quickly, covering the distance in fifteen minutes that might ordinarily have taken her twenty. She knotted her hands, her teeth grinding together to keep the tears away. Once in her life she might have wept. But she couldn't cry now, not when she was fifteen-nearing sixteen-and wise to the Earl's ways. There was no use holding a grudge against him. He never thought twice about administering a punishment, later expecting all to continue as it had.

Smoke swirled from the falconer's chimney, and she heard the barking of dogs. The falconer must be at home, either working with the birds or preparing a bit of supper. She was hungry herself, and now that she thought about it, cold.

It had been too long a day, one of those days that went on and on, broken only by anger and pain. Her dress, she looked down at the bodice, was stained with blood and the hem caked in dirt. She rubbed at the stains, but it was futile; the dress was ruined.

She leaned against the trunk of a birch tree, pressing her forehead against the white bark. Her arms went around the trunk and she held it to her-as if it were a mother or a father. She closed her eyes but couldn't picture the cottage anymore. It had become harder to remember her father's face, his voice. She knew she had once lived high beneath Ben Nevis, but everything had blurred, and the memories had begun to desert her.

Cold, it was cold here. Cordaella shivered and rubbed her arms briskly. She

turned to look for a place to sit in the clearing. Even now she was drawn to the woods, always returning to this place as if it held some special answer, some words for her. Her father had once told her that her mother had also been drawn to clearings, treasuring a favorite place in the Angus woods in Aberdeen. Anne, he had said, believed that clearings held magical powers and that mist in a clearing meant a quest was at hand.